“Sir, I mean about when a case detail talks to you,” she said, persisting. “Something’s talking to me, and I can’t nail it down.”
He shrugged. “Glad one of you listened.” He took a drag of his cigarette. Exhaled thoughtfully. “That’s right. A young girl raped after her violin lesson. Horrific. Fourteen? Non, she’d just turned twelve. Ruined the birthday party. I remember now.”
She leaned forward. “Did you work the case?”
“No names, no files that I ever saw.” He shot her a look.
“But I can’t find a sexual assault case filed at that time.”
He downed his glass. Reached for his jacket. “You won’t. Both parties involved were juveniles.”
She sat up. “All the more reason I should find it at the Brigade des Mineurs.”
“Quit thinking like a flic. Think like someone with something to hide.”
She read between the lines. “So the case was hushed up, buried. Les X-files.”
The term for files that never saw the light of day.
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “Think what you want.”
Shivers rippled her arm in the hot air. “I think he’s come back, struck again. Four girls, and this time one died.”
Rodot shrugged again. He threw twenty francs down on the wet ringed table.
“Check 1998. Disturbance of the peace reports.” He winked. “And I never told you that.”
Wednesday, 8 P.M.
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS of work, Aimée pulled up Florian’s email. She took a breath and hit reply. Began to type. Her phone, nestled in its charger, vibrated.
What now—an invective from René, about to quit? He wouldn’t have to. But the café number showed.
“All?, Aimée.”
“Feel okay, Zazie?”
“Papa said I should apologize,” Zazie said, contrite. A sniffle. “In person. But I’m doing my homework.”
Aimée hit SAVE AS DRAFT and powered off her laptop.
“Then time for my late espresso décaféiné. See you in a moment.”
Poor thing.
The Dior shirt stuck to her back. She had to change. In the back armoire she picked one of Saj’s gifts, a loose, Indian white-cotton shirt—the soft fabric breathed, thank God. She pulled her short jean jacket over it, stepped into an agnès b. cotton-flounced lace skirt with a drawstring waistband and slipped into a low-heeled pair of sandals.
Her finger paused on the old enamel light switch. A tristesse overcame her. Shadows darkened the office, throwing into relief her mahogany desk, inherited from her father. Should she give this up? Leave the memories and move on? With a bittersweet feeling she set the alarm, locked the frosted-glass door of Leduc Detective and faced the wire-cage elevator. Out of service. As usual.
ZAZIE HUNCHED OVER her mathematics book at the café’s rear table. “Papa took me to the lycée so I could bring the teacher my report. I turned it in.”
“Bravo, Zazie.”
“Just some math to do,” she said.
Virginie set down a steaming espresso décaféiné and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Aimée reached to pay, but Virginie stopped her.
“We’re putting this on Zazie’s tab, eh?”
Zazie nodded, her eyes serious.
“Zazie owes you a debt. She will make it up to you,” said Virginie, hands on her hips. “You’re a busy mother-to-be—all this running around and neglecting your business. There’s consequences, I’ve told Zazie. Then getting shot, mon Dieu. I’m so sorry, Aimée.”
Aimée’s sandal strap itched. She felt awkward. Was this that tough love she’d heard about in Raising Your Child with Discipline, another book René had given her? Could she do that?
Maybe she should she take notes.
“I need help behind the counter,” said Virginie, tapping her feet. “Has Zazie said what she needs to say yet?”
A big sigh and rolling of eyes—Zazie was back in teenager mode. “Maman, give me a moment.”
After Virginie gave a territorial swipe of her towel around Zazie’s textbook, she retreated to a waiting customer at the counter.
“I’m sorry, Aimée. I have to thank René, too. Somehow make this up to you.”
Aimée pretended to think. “I might consider letting you babysit after you finish your homework once in a while.”
“Vraiment?” Zazie grinned. “Deal.”
Aimée sipped the fresh orange juice. Heaven. A bit of pulp lodged on her lip.
“Mélanie called me that night from the clinic.” Zazie leaned over her book and lowered her voice. “It was after I left. She didn’t make sense.”
“She was in shock, traumatized. But you can understand,” said Aimée.
Zazie shrugged. “I don’t know.” She closed her book. “She kept talking about his shirt.”
“What’s that, Zazie?”
“Licorice. His shirt smelled like licorice.”
Aimée’s hand froze on the glass. Licorice.
Virginie beckoned from the full counter of customers.
“Coming, Maman.”
If only Aimée’d heard this before.
Outside, under the arcades of rue de Rivoli, she leaned against the limestone. Her mind raced. Just then, her phone vibrated in her bag. The caller ID showed Madame Pelletier.
“Oui?”
“Mademoiselle Leduc, I’m off en vacances, and you never heard this from me. Compris?”
“Bien s?r,” she said, moving into a doorway and pulling out her Moleskine notebook. “What haven’t I heard?”
Aimée listened. Wrote it down. No doubt now. The pieces fit together. A minute later Madame Pelletier clicked off.
Now it made sense.
She needed a plan. Backup. But Saj had gone to Sceaux for a consulting job—too far away. Morbier didn’t answer, and his voice mail was full. Typical. As a last resort, she called René. He didn’t answer, no doubt still furious with her. But she left him a message, stressed she needed backup and gave him the address.